Everything
by terrified
Summary: A one-shot. This three-part story follows the path of Sherlock and Molly from their first meeting to the moment he finally realises that she is everything to him.


_**A/N: **For some reason, Sucré's When We Were Young brought to mind this Sherlolly at university idea that badgered me no end. So I sat down to write it and then it just grew and grew when suddenly—Reichenbach. This isn't a sad piece but I think it tugged at my own heartstrings a lot. I don't why. It could just be the damn song. Who knows. Anyway, I hope it moves you as it moved me. x  
_

* * *

**Everything**

**I.**

Sherlock Holmes was not always the genius. There was a time when he did have to learn, a time when people had to teach him things he did not brief, there was a time when Sherlock Holmes had been a student. At university, he wandered as he wished through the different colleges, usually alone, reading, then experimenting. He frequented libraries, and then the were no rules that could contain his roaming habit of study. He had garnered a name for himself. Sherlock Holmes was the frighteningly quiet but quietly frightening genius, who seemed to learn everything at one glance.

It was a Tuesday and he was headed toward one of his favourite laboratories. It afforded him silence and had the best equipment. He marched in at his usual hour, just after ten o'clock at night. This meant other students were usually away from anything remotely academic, choosing instead to pursue pleasures he found distracting, if not, utterly useless. It surprised him, therefore, to see that there was someone in the lab already.

She was hunched over her bench, peering at something very closely. He could see the thick perspex frames of her safety goggles rest against the side of her face. There was not a strand of hair out of place, for she had swept it up into a most professional up do. It was for practical reasons, obviously. Her white lab coat was pristine, worn perfectly and almost proudly. There was an air of suspense about her, as though she were waiting for something to happen. He was immensely curious. It was not often he noticed people, at least not ones that mattered. Somehow, this young woman, with her fierce concentration on what he could see were six petri dishes in front of her, was curiously mesmerising.

"What have you got there?" he said, walking to the opposite side of her bench.

She gave a small gasp and looked up with a start. There was not supposed to be anyone in the lab, not at this hour. His presence had properly startled her. However, from the way he was standing with his hands behind his back, watching her from a respectful distance, she relaxed. He did not seem threatening, somehow.

"Um, just some skin samples we were given from the university's joint research programme with Bart's…" she said, glancing quickly up at him to offer a polite smile before bowing her head, studying her dishes once more.  
"Oh?" Sherlock remarked, moving to stand beside her. "What are you doing with them?"  
"I'm studying the um…the rate of decay." she answered, a little puzzled at his curiosity. The fact that he had suddenly moved to stand beside her also unnerved her a little. However, when she saw the way he scrutinised the six clear dishes before her, she knew he was harmless.  
"In-teresting…" he said, turning to look at her.

She returned his look and remembered her manners, smiling kindly at him.

"So…what are you here for?" she asked him.

He smirked. Surely she knew? He was infamous for wandering around, breaking into labs and taking chemicals, in the dead of night. So infamous was he that some of the college wardens, after ascertaining he was truly harmless, offered him a spare set of keys so they would not have to keep fixing the locks that he kept breaking.

"I use the labs at night. Different ones, depending on the day, the topic of study…" he explained, setting down the stack of notes he had been holding.

"Oh," she said with a smile. "Lovely."

With that, she simply nodded once and resumed her work, gently picking the samples of decaying skin with a pair of tweezers, bringing them up to her ultraviolet lamp. Sherlock Holmes was a little taken aback. It was his first experience _not_ having had the last word in a conversation. It was also the first time he had felt somewhat ignored. The way in which she worked was fluid, like a seasoned scientist. The depth of her concentration was impressive. Sherlock did not move from his spot next to her, but not once did she look back up again. He watched, enthralled, as she scraped at pieces of skin, dipping them into different chemicals and recording every change she observed.

"Perfect." she whispered, smiling to herself.

By that time, Sherlock had begun setting up his own experiment. When he heard her quiet little exclamation of victory, he looked up from his notes that were sprawled across his work surface.

"What's that?" he asked, raising one eyebrow at her.  
"Oh, it's just…my calculations worked. I think. The rate of decay was just as I had predicted… " she mumbled excitedly as she began scribbling more notes down into her notepad.  
"Why do you want to study it?" he asked, "Decay, that is."  
"I want to know it well enough to stop it." she replied, looking up at him suddenly. There was a certain conviction in the way she had answered, and it impressed Sherlock.  
"What do you mean…stop it?" he asked, staring at her curiously.  
"It sounds grand, doesn't it?" she said, suddenly embarrassed. "Almost too grand."  
"Not in the least," he replied earnestly.  
"I want to stop it because…" she paused, as though trying to find the right words.  
"I don't mean to pry. I'm just curio—"  
"The thing about decay…death" she interrupted, "…is that once you _know_death, and I mean really know death. Then, you can know life."

When she spoke, he could see a determined light shine in her eyes. It danced about as she stood confidently before him, having declared the motivation behind her work. It was most noble, and it seemed to resonate with Sherlock.

"I'm sick of death…winning," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, "I want to know death, so I can know life. And I want life to _win_."

The light in her eyes dimmed. The height she had momentarily gained vanished as her shoulders dropped ever so slightly. He noticed the lowered expression, the tension in her mouth as she clenched her jaw.

"Was it a parent? A sibling?" he asked softly.

She looked up with a start. Her eyes widened slightly at his words.

"It was…um…my dad," she answered him, nodding slowly.

A moment of silence passed between them before she gathered herself and begin to pack her things. Again, Sherlock watched her, fascinated at the the clarity and precision with which she worked. Bit by bit, she cleaned her workspace. After cleaning the utensils, she began methodically sorting them out, returning them to their respective drawers and shelves in the lab. When she walked past Sherlock to return a set of calipers to the drawers behind him, he stopped her gently by placing his hand on her shoulder.

"Are you okay?" he asked, peering closely at her.

She said not a word but quickly placed the calipers in the drawer behind him, shutting it back quietly. She could not lift her eyes to meet his and so stared down at her shoes.

"Don't say that you are," he continued, "because I can tell you're not. My question was purely rhetorical."

His words tickled her, and a small smile broke on her face. She looked up at him properly for the first time. It occurred to her then, that this young man, whom she had met for less than half an hour, had managed to see through to her private emotional space. He had mysteriously figured out that someone dear to her had died. No one would have guessed it. That was the problem, really. There was simply _no one_.

I'll be okay," she answered, smiling genuinely at him for the first time. She studied his eyes and was a little taken aback at how clear they were.

The two brilliant minds faced each other, each marvelling at the fact that it was possible to engage with another human being. After operating in solitude for most of their lives, it proved to be both strange and comforting to know that there existed someone else who understood.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes," he said, breaking their silence. He extended his hand, awaiting hers.  
"I'm Molly." she answered, taking his hand, "Molly Hooper."

The pair smiled as they awkwardly let go from their handshake. Molly walked back to her bench and gathered her things.

"So, I'm off then. All the best with yours." she said, gesturing to his experiment that had been set-up halfway.  
"Molly."  
"Yes?"

Sherlock got up from his stool and walked over to her. He was tall and towered over her petite frame.

"I think we'd work well together," he remarked. His eyes were bright as he looked intently at her.  
"Work well on…what?" she asked, amused.  
"Everything." he answered with a smile.

**II.**

It was a good feeling when Sherlock could finally go about his detective business a little more officially. He had begun dabbling in a bit of detective work here and there in his last year at university when he had finished learning everything they could teach him. However, no one listened to students, much less eccentric ones with a history of breaking into locked rooms and secure buildings. Nevertheless, his genius spoke for itself. Here he was now, finally recognised by Scotland Yard as a more-than-reliable consultant on their cases.

This was the first time he rode in a police car and he made a mental note never to do so again. The detective-in-charge was boring him with some arbitrary case information. As he prattled on about evidence Sherlock had picked out within seconds at the crime scene, he looked out of the window and saw that they had stopped at St. Bart's Hospital.

"What are we here for, Mitchell?" he asked the detective, slamming the car door shut.  
"Didn't you hear me? We're here to inspect the other bodies. They all—"  
"They all bear the same knife wounds around the abdomen, yes, obviously," Sherlock interrupted, just short of rolling his eyes.

The men were brought to the hospital's basement level, where the morgue was situated. When the morgue doors opened, Sherlock was startled to see a familiar sight. It was a sight he had not seen in years since he had left university. There, in the middle of the morgue, standing calmly over a grey cadaver, was Molly Hooper. She was wearing a white lab coat and had her hair perfectly swept up, just as he had encountered her that Tuesday night in the lab.

"Dr Hooper, Scotland Yard is here." said the orderly who had led them here.  
"Thanks, Pete." she said, glancing up quickly with a smile before bowing her head again to study the corpse.

Sherlock could not help but smile. How odd, that he should find her in the same way as he had all those years ago.

"Molly," said Detective Mitchell, walking towards her.  
"Detective," she answered, not once looking up from the brutal slash wounds on the cadaver she was examining.  
"I've brought someone. A…consultant, for the force." he said, beckoning for Sherlock.

With a smirk on his face, Sherlock stepped forward and stood beside Molly. Yet again, she was immersed in her work, not really worried about all the other people in the morgue.

"Any calculations this time?" he asked, looking down at her hunched figure.  
"What calculations?" she asked, whipping her head round to see who had spoken to her.

When she saw Sherlock, her eyes lit up and her face broke into a wide smile.

"Sherlock, hello." She could not stop smiling. Neither could he.  
"Is life winning yet?" he asked. Seeing her again gave him a curious lightness of being.  
"Not for this man," she said with a laugh and a shake of her head, "Nor for the other twelve victims."

Ignoring the team from Scotland Yard that had inadvertently reunited these university companions, Molly and Sherlock walked in between the rows of bodies that were laid out, casually discussing each body they walked past. She ran through, in great detail, her observations of their deaths. Once again, the clarity of her thoughts and her immense knowledge amazed the consulting detective.

When they finished inspecting all the bodies and Sherlock gathering all the information he needed, he stopped to look at her one more time before leaving. By that time, Scotland Yard had deserted them. It was just the two of them left in the morgue.

"Was there anything else you needed?" she asked him, clutching her clipboard to herself when she saw his unmoving figure by the morgue doors.  
"I don't suppose…" he inhaled slowly, "You'd have any appetite left after being around this all day?"  
"You'll be surprised but, to be honest, I'm ravenous," she said with a chuckle.  
"Actually," he remarked with a half-smile of his own, "I'm _not _surprised. You always were…different, Molly Hooper."  
"You're not so mainstream yourself," she remarked with a knowing smirk.  
"I know a little place, makes decent pasta. Want to give it a go?" he asked.  
"You never asked me out for dinner at uni," she said, with a teasing glint in her eyes.

Sherlock laughed and so did she. Again, he watched and waited as she closed up the place. When she was done, she walked up to him and indicated she was ready to go.

"So. Pasta?" he turned to her to ask again.  
"Sure." she said with a nod, "I just want to know…why we're having dinner."  
"Well, I just thought since we were going to be working together, a meal together wouldn't hurt." he answered rather haphazardly.  
"You're right," she said, startling him by linking her arm through his, "It wouldn't hurt in the least."

There was a sudden heightened realisation of how close she was to him. Her arm was looped casually through his as she stood closer to him than she had ever been. Something about it made sense though. He wondered why they had never explored such delightful proximity before. If Sherlock had any regrets from university, this was probably it — not standing close enough to Molly Hooper.

"What's the matter?" she asked, realising he was just staring at her.

Her words snapped him out of his thoughts.

"I was just thinking…Scotland Yard finally got something right," he said with a proud glint in his eyes.  
"What?" she asked, amused at his expression.  
"You study death to know life," he explained, "I solve crimes to fix life. If that isn't a perfect match, I don't know what is."  
"A perfect match, eh?" she repeated, looking up at him.

They stood there by the doors, privately enjoying their unexpected rekindling. Not once did they separate. Molly's arm remained comfortably linked with his, and Sherlock made sure to keep her firmly to his side.

"This is our first time having dinner though," Molly remarked, "How do you think we'll fare?"  
"I don't foresee any problems." he answered.  
"You think so?" she asked, smiling.  
"As I'd told you before…" he said somewhat tenderly, "We work well together."  
"At everything?" she teased.

Sherlock smiled and drew her just a little closer to his side.

"Yes. Everything."

**III.**

Adulthood had been tumultuous. Sherlock realised emotions were not quite so straightforward as people, or greeting cards, made them out to be. Love was complicated, painful and a terrible hindrance to his work. Molly had inadvertently learnt, therefore, that love was complicated, painful and a terrible hindrance. That was what happened when one decided to love the infamous consulting detective. His work consumed his life. So naturally, love was unwelcome. Still, he could never quite unwelcome Molly Hooper. She was always there, and she was certainly always there when he needed her. It was always in the name of work, of course. That one pasta dinner had been just that — the one dinner they would ever have.

The fierce dedication Molly had to her work, she applied to coping with Sherlock. It was never about getting anything in return anyway. If she could do something good for him, it was good enough. The fact that he still worked with her was something she appreciated. Never once did he disregard her value to him, though it was never apparent to others. As far as the world could see, Molly was nothing to him, invisible. Molly had their history to console her every time her invisibility got too apparent.

It had been another busy day at the hospital. Molly was running some tests upstairs from the morgue, in a lab. She had just ended a long and tiring day, especially since Sherlock had usurped her lunch hour to run some tests on a footprint. A crazed criminal mastermind was playing an elaborate game of cat-and-mouse with Sherlock and he was utterly consumed by it. Molly was starving, having only had some crisps to sustain her while she slaved away with Sherlock. Of course, when he got the results he wanted, he bolted out of the lab, with neither a word of thanks nor acknowledgement of her presence, leaving her to clean up. He had made a terrible mess, digging out every chemical there was in the supply cupboard to find this one mystery component in the footprint. For the sake of the victims, Molly was glad he had worked it out. Still, as she cleaned up his mess and restored order in the lab from his whirlwind visit, her body ached, for the first time, more than her heart did.

At ten o'clock, the lab was plunged into darkness when Molly finally flipped the light switch, effectively ending her day. When her hand reached for the door handle, she was startled by a shadow that seemed to move across the lab. Her hand froze on the door handle. She wanted to bolt out of the lab, but somehow, she stayed rooted to the spot.

"Molly," came the voice that was the source of her private heartache.  
"Sherlock?" she said quietly, moving away from the door.

The lab was dark, with only a small pocket of light that streamed in from the perspex panels on the door. Out from the shadows, Sherlock stepped into the light. Molly let out a soft gasp when she saw him. His face registered an expression of pure pain and utter distress. Those large, clear eyes of his were wide with panic and stained with emotion.

"Are you okay?" she asked him. She was unable to stop herself and reached gently for his hand.  
"No, I'm not okay…" he answered, wrapping her hand in his.  
"Tell me what's wrong," she said, moving closer to him.  
"Molly…" he murmured, his eyes wild with fear, "I think I'm going to die."  
"What do you need?" she whispered, her other hand reaching up to touch his face.

In spite of all his fear and panic, Sherlock Holmes managed a weak smile.

"You," he answered softly.

Her hand rested on his cheek as she returned his smile with a tender one of her own.

"Well, it's a good thing we work well together." she murmured when he surprised them both by drawing her to him.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around the woman who meant more to him than even he himself realised. Perhaps, he could not love her because it was too insufficient a concept to describe the need he would always have for Molly. Love was too trivial an explanation for what connected them, two solitary beings in a universe that made sense only to them both.

"I will always need you Molly Hooper. I always have." he whispered, shutting his eyes as he took in the full sensation of having her in his arms. He could no longer imagine a life without such solace.  
"Don't lie," she said, smiling against his shirt.  
"I'm not," he replied, tightening his grip around her.  
"What could you need me for?" she asked, looking up at him.

Even in the dark, her brown eyes found his, just as his gaze found hers. Sherlock smiled, knowing he was going to survive this. Molly knew life, and she was going to save his.

"Everything, Molly Hooper." he answered, "Everything.


End file.
